Secret Door
by Eccentric Mannerisms
Summary: Whats this about Mort saying he's an illiterate? It's Secret Window like you've never seen it before...hopefully.


Disclaimer: I am not Stephen King, Therefore am not the owner of Secret Window. I have a piece of tape over his name though with my own written in scrawl. I don't think that helped for when I went around saying "Look what I wrote!" Everyone ruined my fun and tore the tape off. Stephen King is the rightful owner.  
  
Secret Window like you've never seen it before.  
  
A Parody by Eccentric Mannerisms  
  
Secret Door  
Chapter One- The Stranger  
  
"You borrowed my story." The stranger with the accent lisped.  
  
Mort Rainey stood at his doorway with a pained expression read all over his face. He had never seen this man before, and here this stranger was accusing him of borrowing. The writer furrowed his brow in thought. Having woken up only for this opportunity of opening the door had left his brain and mouth empty of any reply. His lips parted, and when no words voiced out he closed them.  
  
The mans face stayed neutral as Mort studied him, with his sunken eyes continually staring deep at Morts own brown ones. Strange enough as the man had knocked on his door, was as strange as his appearance. A black hat, that was very similar to what Quakers wore was atop his head, as a blue work shirt was buttoned to where buttons disappeared. Odd enough he had a baseball Cardinals pin placed right on his shirt as well.  
  
"Well, are you goin' to say sumthin'?"  
  
"I'm a cubs fan." Mort raised a hand to scratch his brown blonde bedhead, before retreating it to the pocket of his khaki trousers. "It was a shame that they didn't—"  
  
"That doesn' matter. What matters is that you borrowed my story." The stranger snorted and held out a large stack of paper. The paper had been through a journey of its own for the cover was partly bent over with small creases accompanying it.  
  
"I don't read manuscripts. I'm illiterate." Mort lied sorely and smiled a false weak smile for a second or two, before using his other hand to grasp the gold doorknob of his chipped door. "I'm afraid I don't speak to strangers who appear up at my door accusing me of borrowing."  
  
"I'm no shitkicker. You've read this before." There was that hard lisp and accent. He picked his feet up and left Mort in the doorway as he walked over calmly to a rock that was eerily placed on Morts own porch. "You gonna pick this up when I leave right?"  
  
Mort nodded and shut his door as the stranger galloped from the porch and into the front yard where an old station wagon was parked. The writer glanced over to the window that was slightly open, letting a soft breeze enter throughout the house. The roar of an engine echoed to Morts ears as he watched the car suddenly back up and knock into his pot of violets before going forward in the right direction.  
  
"Not the violets!" He yelled to himself, knowing quite well that it took all month to get them budding, even if it was the fall season, and now they were in a heap of dirt out located from their pot. He groaned harshly as he twisted the knob of his door and letting it swing open. Sure enough, the wad of paper was placed underneath the large rock centered in the middle. Mort casually traveled over and picked up the stone, cradling it between both of his palms as he then dropped it in the bushes. Next came the sheaf of paper that he brought inside.  
  
Mort was mumbling a few words only that could be heard by himself and his cat dog Bumico. His brown eyes looked down at the crooked words on the cover page.  
  
Sewing the Four Seasons  
By:  
John Shooter  
  
He had never heard of John Shooter in his whole life, or past life if he even had one. As well had he never heard of the story 'Sowing Season'. Mort grasped the spine of the loose paper and flicked through the pages with his fingers a few times. What was he supposed to do with this thing? Read it? Through the debate, he just as well figured that he never borrowed this story so what was the point of spending his time reading it?  
  
His hand picked it up and leaned it over the top of the trashcan. After a few more seconds of what to do he let go and watched it tumbled quickly onto everything else that had been left in there.  
  
"Now where was I?" He spoke out loud. Living alone had its advantages, no one would thing you were a loon if you started having conversations with yourself. Mort carried himself back over to his well known ratted couch. The couch was facing the fireplace, with a coffee table a foot or two away from it. A small green phone was a lone object on the table and appeared to ring any second. Mort stood in the space between these two furnishings before lying down with two pillows as support to his head.  
  
"I didn't borrow that story."  
  
I agree. It's a short chapter. ^^ I just wanted to see how everyone liked it before I moved on. Feedback would be appreciated. The thing about his cat dog is that in the book Mort has a cat named bump, cross that between the dog in the movie whos name is Chico, and out pops the cat dog Bum-ico. Mort Rainey locks of bed head for those who got that!  
  
Please stay tuned.  
  
Ta,  
  
-E.c.c.e.n.t.r.i.c. M.a.n.n.e.r.i.s.m.s- 


End file.
